Chapter 3
A decision like any other he makes in the course of his business day, she remembers.
That direct, that casual.
He did not even ask her if she wanted to marry him.
He automatically assumed that she did.
And she did not contradict him.
And it is not as if she were drunk, so she cannot use that as an excuse for the precipitate course of events which followed.
No, she entered into this marriage as coldly indifferent, almost as impersonally, even more casually than if she were picking out earrings at the jeweler's.
And she thinks back, remembering everything that happened.
They shower together in silence.
In silence, they dry off and dress.
And go to find her father and mother among the throng on the awning-covered deck of the huge motor yacht, almost the size of a small ocean liner.
"Well, Bill," Randy says to her father, "it would seem that I have the honor of requesting your daughter's hand in marriage."
Bill looks from one to the other, incredulous.
"That was certainly... rapid," he says. "But uh, sure, why not?"
Her mother looks at them and bites her lower lip.
"Good, then. It's settled.
"Excuse us while we find our genial hostess and give her the privilege of announcing the good news."
And Randy leads her to find Samantha Steele, circulating among the crowd with that semi-hyper animation of the cocktail party hostess.
They locate her, her d'colletage lower than everyone else's in her black, flounce-skirted cocktail dress, placing a lacquer-nailed finger on the wrist of some particularly witty guest who has just told a naughty story.
"Samantha, darling, a moment of your time," Randy says.
"Yes, Randy?"
And she sees Irene standing there next to him, his arm around her bare shoulders, squeezing them so tightly that they hunch, rendering her d'colletage even more daring than Samantha's, at least momentarily.
"Oh, no! Don't tell me! You old are, you!"
"You may announce our engagement," Randy confirms, hugging Irene to himself, kissing her on the forehead.
"I certainly will!" she exclaims.
"Excuse us, won't you?" she says to the other guests with whom she was conversing when interrupted.
"And you two, you're coming with me!"
She grasps Randy by the wrist and leads him to the bandstand, where the band is playing elevator music.
She steps up on the platform, leading Randy, who leads Irene.
"Drum roll, please," she says, stepping up to the microphone and turning it on.
She gets it, along with repeated clashing of cymbals.
"Attention, please, everyone!
"I've an important announcement to make!
"You all know Randy Buck here, I believe."
Ripple of laughter at the ridiculous question.
"And most of you-the ones who count, anyway-have met the lovely Irene Voleur.
"Well, Bill and Dotty announce the engagement of their daughter Irene to Randolph Arlington Buck.
"That is all the information we have at this time.
"Thank you."
And she leads the general applause for the couple, who bow and curtsey, respectively, before stepping down from the platform into a sea of plaudits and congratulations.
Which all seem routine, perfunctory, until- "Congratulations, Randy," she says. "Turning over a new leaf, or merely turning the page in that same old sick volume?"
"Baroness! How very nice to see you.
"What a pleasant surprise."
And a circle forms around the encounter, the guests in the immediate front suspending conversation, glasses held idly before them, watching, expectant.
"Aren't you going to introduce me to the lovely bride to be, Randy?"
"Of course. Where are my manners?"
"Baroness, my fianc', Irene Voleur."
"Irene, this is Cynthia Marvell, a.k.a. the Baroness, owner, president, chairman of the board of Marvel Industries and an old... acquaintance of mine."
"It's very nice to m-"
"So, Baroness," Randy resumes, cutting Irene off, "I see that Samantha has invited you to the party after all."
"Who better, Randy? After all, it wouldn't be happening, if not for me now, would it-at least according to you?"
"What did she do-invite you to the party so you wouldn't blow it up?"
"Why Randy, that borders on the positively libelous, don't you think?
"But, assuming that I did what you would have all these good people think I did, that didn't stop me before, did it?
"And at least, this time, it's a calm day and we're tied up at the pier."
"You have some nerve, showing up like this?"
"Not nearly as much nerve as your fianc', I would say.
"Tell me, my dear; are you aware of what a monster you're marrying?"
"One hears rumors, yes," Irene replies, her face an expressionless mask as she clings to Randy's arm.
"Ah yes. One does indeed.
"Would you believe that they fail to do him justice?"
"Justice is generally a scarce commodity in this world," Irene replies.
"Touch!" Randy exclaims, laughing. "She's got you there, Baroness, I'm afraid."
"I would say Irene has more to fear than you, Randy."
Then, to Irene, "Well. Best of luck to you, my dear.
"I can't really say that I hope you know what you're doing, since it's obvious that you don't, because if you did, you wouldn't."
"Randy," Irene says, "I'm not enjoying this conversation. Can we go now?"
"Please," Cynthia says, "please don't leave on my account.
"I'm leaving now myself.
"Recent developments have rather cast a pall on the affair for me.
"I sincerely hope, my dear, that we are able to meet again in this life.
"And Randy? Tick, tick, tick."
And Cynthia turns on her heel and leaves the deck, a path clearing before her tall, blonde, tanned presence, closing in her wake, as the circle dissolves amidst murmuring commentary over this encounter.
"What's that all about, Randy?" Irene asks.
"That? You have just met the enemy.
"And now, if you will excuse me for a few minutes, I must speak privately with Samantha-ah, there she is!"
And he leaves Irene abruptly, his iron grip closing on Samantha's elbow as he says, "I'd like to talk to you about your guest list, Samantha.
"It would seem... "
And the rest is lost on Irene, as Randy wrestles Samantha's tall, voluptuous brunette presence down the companion way, his fingers digging deeply into the ample flesh of her upper arm.
Irene stares after them, not moving.
But she has no chance to reflect, because- "We always wondered who would manage to snare our Randy Buck," the man, tall, dark, handsome, young says.
We? Irene thinks. Who the hell is "we".
"Oh, I'm sorry; we haven't met. I'm Igor and this is Valentina. The Citrones?"
Are you asking or telling me, she thinks.
They are a very striking couple, even though Valentina's hair looks like it has been painted onto her skull, so short, dark, flat is it.
"We were with your fianc' on board the Steeles' first yacht when it was-when it went down."
"I think it more to the point-dear-that Irene wasn't," Valentina says, practically through gritted teeth.
"Well dear, she is engaged to the man, after all," Igor says.
"You assume too much, Igor."
Then, to Irene, "It was very nice meeting you, my dear. Perhaps we'll see you up at the Estate some time. I take it that is where you plan on making your home."
And Irene realizes that she doesn't even know that much for sure.
But- "Of course. And I'd like that very much.
"Randy and I would be happy to see you there.
"Perhaps then-" looking directly at Valentina, "we can discuss shipwrecks and such."
But if Valentina has been rebuked, she doesn't yield an inch, let alone apologize.
"Perhaps we can," Valentina replies flatly, her tone dismissive, final.
"Come, Igor, let's see if we can't find a passing tray of canap's or something. I'm starving."
And Igor, an expression of apology on his face, allows himself to be led away.
As Irene wonders just what it was about the party on the ill-fated cruise that Valentina doesn't want Igor discussing with the (to her) perfect stranger Randy Buck is about to marry.
And Irene cannot help feeling just a bit apprehensive.
First, there were merely the rumors, a bit here, a fragment there at other affairs, at the country club concerning the (depending on who was talking) kinky and nefarious Randy Buck.
Then, there was the disaster at sea involving Randy and the predecessor of this very ship.
And now, the encounter with the Baroness, who is very real and very much an enemy and who all but admitted blowing up the yacht.
And just now, Igor and Valentina, Valentina who was adamant in not allowing Igor to say anything about what was going on at the party on the dead ship, if party is what it really was.
"Ah! There you are, Irene!" Randy Buck exclaims.
Of course I am, she thinks. I haven't moved from this spot.
"Come, let's find Bill and Dotty and tell her we're leaving.
"Want to get us something more substantial than hors d'oevres for supper.
"Also want to be alone with you, so we can talk."
"That sounds like a very good idea.
"You're not... mad at Samantha, are you, Randy?"
"Mad? More like, oh, let's just say disappointed, okay?
"I mean, if you had a deadly enemy, one known as such to a friend and that friend invites you to a party at which the enemy is also expected and doesn't say a word to you about it, how would you feel?"
"You have every right to be upset, Randy."
"The woman actually considered it amusing, if you can believe it, Irene!
"The Baroness tries to kill both of us, us and dozens of others and this idiot treats it like it was some kind of a joke!"
"But Randy, if she did that, she could go to prison many lifetimes."
"Well of course she could!
"But how can I prove it?
"The ship is down well off the continental shelf and even though she had her escape well, planned, I'm sure, the fact is that she was on board when it went down in the middle of a gale.
"What policeman would believe that she would be insane enough to do such a thing under those conditions.
"They'd practically have to show that she was suicidal.
"And she isn't, merely fanatical on the subject of stopping Randy Buck."
"Stopping you from what, Randy? Having parties?"
Randy laughs at this.
"You are really precious, you know that?
"Yes, that's absolutely correct. She's my personal and permanent party pooper.
"She has actually killed people to prevent my having a good time."
Irene is about to ask him something about this last, when- "Bill, Dotty, gotta steal your daughter away for a little candlelight supper, if that's okay.
"And I promise to have her home at a decent hour, right, Bill?"
Punching him playfully on the shoulder.
"Yes, you two young people run along, now," Bill says.
The two men laugh at this as Dotty looks down, fretting and Irene shows nothing.
To marry the monster.
Because yes, looking back, she can see that even then she knew.
Just as she knew that the Baroness was in the right and Randy the wrong on this thing.
Still, she did nothing about the engagement, not even when Randy told her that he wanted to speed things up, get married practically right away.
Because he fascinated her.
Here was a large, powerful man with a large, powerful dark side to him.
And yes, he has an enemy, powerful or at least effective, one who, by his own admission, has successfully blocked him at every turn.
He told Irene that the Baroness has killed people to stop his plans.
But Irene can just imagine what kind of people.
Not that she sees this thing as all black and white.
Rather, this is dark side against dark side.
This is two personalities, two individuals, both super wealthy, both, no doubt, with super egos, locked in mortal combat, there, in the darkness.
The Baroness has killed people?
Irene would be willing to bet that the same is true of Randy.
And the chances are better than even that his victims were, at least in the traditional sense, innocent.
A whole scenario builds up in her mind.
Randy Buck, archfiend.
A reigning power in the underworld of the bizarre, that's Randy.
And yet, she did marry him, much to her father's delight, but what does he know?
And for that matter, what does Irene herself know, really?
Does she know, is she prepared to attest, with absolute certainty, the fact that Randy did not in fact marry her as his latest adventure in giving reality to his dark side?
Because, if the Baroness has thwarted him at every turn, this marriage could very well be merely his most recent effort at indulging himself, his hobby, his pastime, his perversion, his dark side.
And how many turns were there at which he has been thwarted, come to think of it?
What fiendish plots has he hatched, on what scale, that the Baroness has seen fit to counterplot in such spectacular and potentially disastrous a fashion?
He promised to tell her about the party on the yacht.
But he has not done so.
Instead, he keeps to himself all his doings, whether business or private.
And uses her as he does, uses and abuses her, all the while claiming that it's what she really wants.
And a part of her believes him, that's what's so sick.
Because she is hardly just another abused spouse, taking it from him because she is too scared or too weak to run, or remains and suffers because she is in love with him.
Nothing of the kind.
She has her own car-two of them, in fact-her own money, both money which is hers in every sense and money which he gives her, along with access to still more of the same, should she, for any reason, require or desire it.
So that she is in no sense a prisoner here at the Estate.
Indeed, she is, if anything, the mistress of the household, specifying anything she wishes, from the menu to the layout of the landscaping.
She can have Eric drive her wherever she wishes when he is not working for Randy.
She can have him wash her cars, whether they need it or not.
And yet, this, this... thing is a reality in her life.
And Randy would have her believe that it is a reality in her desire, in her mind, that it was this before that first session.
Which was on their wedding night, of all things.
Because there she was, one minute, getting ready to make it with him.
And the next, she was being attacked by two masked fiends, which she recognized only very slowly as Eric and Cranston.
While Randy was nowhere to be found, apparently.
As those two had their way with her.
As they took her, fore and aft.
As they turned her this way and that, putting her exactly where they wanted her, as though she were nothing more than an inanimate object, a rag doll.
As, dizzy and disoriented, she was turned this way and that, now lifted, now twisted, as mouths and cocks explored her every orifice at will.
Speaking of which, she doesn't recall having any.
It had to be some kind of a drug; she is convinced of it.
How else account for the lapse in time, the discontinuous shifting of situation.
One minute, the bride preparing for her wedding night, the next, a rape victim helpless in the hands of her tormentors.
And this was not the helplessness of the so-called weaker sex.
This was not Irene putting up a valiant but futile struggle.
Rather, this was an Irene who was very much out of it.
As though she were somehow standing there, outside herself, watching as this happened to someone else, someone who just coincidentally happened to look like her.
And yet, it was her, it was definitely her, no question.
No question, because she could feel every touch, whether of hand or tongue or cock.
Feel and more than feel, she could.
She could, she could... enjoy.
What was the stuff he used on her, uses on her, she wonders? He.
Meaning Randy Buck.
Because, even then, that very first night, for all his supposed absence, she felt his presence, felt it, if nothing else, in the actions of his minions, who would not have dared do such a thing except on his orders.
Servants they were, servants they are and she never thought, never thinks of them as anything else.
So that she is not deceived on that point.
Was not, is not.
As both of them, sporting full erections turned her this way and that.
As they fitted her onto Cranston's big cock.
As Eric got behind her, rimming her ass hole until she was lubricated with his saliva, her bung already protruding, distended because of the interior pressure, the displacement due to Cranston's mighty monolith of monster meat.
As he lifted her up off of Cranston until only the huge head of his hammer hung heavily just inside her cunt lips.
And smoothly shafted his cock into her rectum before letting her back down, so that she was impaled fore and aft.
And feeling herself tingling with the intimate lasciviousness of the situation, as the two rampant erections began to work on her insides.
Because Eric began bouncing up and down, letting the bed springs do their work for them, his, Cranston's.
So that they turned her into a two-cylinder engine, a love machine, the pistons alternating half in and half out by turns.
So that they turned her nether orifices into smoothly rounded, sucking, clinging, juicy mouths, eagerly servicing their welcome invaders.
And it was just so-o-o easy, so very easy, to open herself up to them, to let it happen, to allow this double shot of turgid virility, of tumescent masculinity to come into contact with (the dark side of?) her femininity, letting the perfect union, the mysterious conjunction take place, letting it happen (making it happen?).
And yes, she has to admit it, they propelled her quite smoothly, very efficiently, through level after level of her arousal.
Higher and higher she rose, as the determined organs went about their lubricous, delicious work.
And yes, she wanted more and more, specifically more and more of the exact same thing she was getting.
And yet, she could not bring herself to open her eyes, to watch, to look at, to see any of this happening in the real world.
She was like a girl on a roller coaster ride, lacking the courage to face what was happening and yet, at one and the same time, actively experiencing it.
And it made no sense to her then and it makes none now that she should have done this, that she should have allowed this to happen as it did.
Except that it was accomplished with her active complicity, no question.
And yet, when, when had she ever expressed her desire for such a thing to Randy?
Drugs, she tells herself, that's what it is.
In her food, perhaps in her toothpaste, anywhere.
And yet-and yet.
Was it drugs that caused that feeling, that thrill, that lascivious twinge that started her insides to drooling, that made her want to go on and on like this with the two masked rapists?
Because there are truths which are of the body, immutable, unarguable feelings, sensations whose deliciousness, whose irresistible, voluptuous pleasure are not subject to delusion.
The mind can be deceived, the body never.
So that yes, there was the weakness, the inability to muster the strength to resist.
And that could have been, probably was drug induced.
But that has only to do with the means to resist.
And it says nothing of this, this other.
Which is the ardent desire to have what is happening take place.
It happened then and it happens now, happens all the time.
Victim she may be, but she is unquestionably a willing victim.
As she was that wedding night when the two masked lackeys pushed her up the rainbow, forcing her to climax, forcing her series of multiple orgasms, milking them of their loads, fore and aft and reveling in the double injection of thick, hot jism as it filled her cunt, filled her bowels, only to be pumped back out of her by the alternating action of the meat pistons.
And yes, she even remembers hearing herself moan aloud with the pleasure of it all.
And wanting the series of multiple orgasms to go on and on, wanting them to go on and on, forever and ever, world without end.